


Who Slept With Alfred Jones?

by AnonymousVow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America doesn't want the world, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Competent America, F/M, Forced Kissing, Forced Undressing, M/M, Multi, Not Me!, Old kink meme fill, Seriously crack, The Great Mutated Fill, Written in 2009, all relationships one-sided until America decides otherwise, set in an AU where the past ten years didn't happen OK, so ten years ago, the world wants America, who knows who's going to win
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-04-07 20:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 18,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19092742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousVow/pseuds/AnonymousVow
Summary: The world learns that in this day and age, America is, somehow, still a virgin.ImperialismEpic scrambling ensues.Chapter 16: Nations loop the loop and Canada swears.





	1. in which there is a bet on

**Author's Note:**

> An old (like a decade old!) fill I had worked on for the APH Kink Meme, which I recently dug out, brushed off, lightly revised, and will post for archival purposes. When this was written, I was much more hopeful about the world, and please consider that. Bosses and other stuff not meant to be tied to anything real. (Except for Queen Elizabeth II) God, I had made a Lizzie McGuire reference in the original one!

It began simply enough, with a bet.

"Who had taken America's virginity?" the Nations asked themselves, because speculating on the various habits and oddities of the superpower was always good for a laugh. And they wondered which of the two European powers had taken the Nation's first time - England, his old mentor, or France, that infamous seducer?

No one knew. And it was their incredible bad luck to be in a group that, incredibly, held none of America's sexual partners (What were the odds? The American Nation, they had so often heard, was practically a whore - a beautiful golden whore.) And therefore no one could offer tips on how his sexual performance was like, if his style was more French or English. Not a single clue.

So (after copious amounts of drinking) they had come up with an idea simple in its brilliance - or was that brilliant in its simplicity? In any case, they liked it a lot. They would _ask_ France. Or England.

Since both countries were currently arguing over who had better cheese, they found their plan easy to carry out. They sent Canada to do it, since he had disappointed them greatly by not having had sex with his twin brother, despite how hot that would have been. Also, England and France were somehow involved with him, or his history, or something, right? (The details were fuzzy at the moment)

So Canada, usual diffidence erased by copious amounts of beer, staggered up to England and France and asked for their attention. Very loudly. In a profane mix of Quebecois French and Canadian English.

England was the first to react. "Matthew, what the bloody hell..."

Canada interrupted his elder by bellowing out the question: "Hey, hey, which one among you two _bande de cons_ was the one who firs' fucked my big brother?" His coarse words were at odds with his giving them the cutest, most curious look ever and the sweet, completely-without-malice tone of his voice.

Without malice or not, however, his tone was still loud enough to carry through the crowded conference room. Which had subsided from a loud roar of disparate conversations, arguments, and attempted seductions (a lot happened when you crammed every personification of the world's nations into a single area) into absolute silence, every Nation listening intently for the answer.

For once united in their mutual shock, England and France gaped at each other, then at their audience, then at Canada, and then back at each other. Canada's big blue eyes begged them for the truth, so with a resigned huff they answered at the same time.

"England did."

"France did."

"...."

They leaped to their feet and began pointing and screaming at each other.

"I thought you did!"

"No, I thought _you_ did! He kept pulling away and so I thought you traumatized him or something when he was young..."

"Are you calling me -- that was so many insults in one statement I'm almost impressed, you wine bastard, only none of them are true! I'm not bad in bed and I'm not a pedophile and I wouldn't have fuckin' traumatized him!"

"Well, it was the only reason I could see for why he would pull away from..."

"Are you saying you never touched him?" England and Canada demanded, at the same time.

" _Non_. And you are saying you did not molest him as a child?"

"I have never touched him!" England protested.

Canada gaped at them, as did the rest of the Nations. Then England whirled on him. "And you should know he wasn't raped or anything, Matthew, yes?"

"Why should I know?"

"Are you not his lover?" France asked, curiously.

"No! I mean, we're close, but not - not in that way...why would you think that?"

"Just- the way he acts so familiar around you, and...."

"Wait," called out another voice. "If he didn't sleep with England, France, _OR_ Canada, who _did_ take his virginity?"

"My GNP is riding on this, you know!" called out a desperate voice.

There was a frantic quizzing buzz among the Nations, everyone so desperate to know. And the end result - and the fact that no one lied about it kind of amazed some even more than the answer - was that no one there had slept with America.

(Sexually, that is. He was prone to crawling into other people's beds for nightmare-comforting, it turned out, at least those he liked - and England had turned funny colors when he found out about this habit.)

An awed, shocked silence descended upon the chamber. Even Russia looked taken aback by the collective realization.

It was into this hush that the door banged open and America strode inside in all his burger-chomping, bomber-jacketed glory.

"Hey guys! So, what'd I miss?"

***

Bande de cons: Quebecois for "Bunch of idiots, shitheads"

 


	2. in which there is a brawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original AN from meme: Thanks for the comments, anons~ it helps inspire the rest of the story. :D

There was a moment of absolute silence, as charged as a storm-cloud, flickering with almost-visible electricity. Every single eye in the place had snapped to the American in the doorway, and the way they were regarding him so intensely had even his spotlight-loving self a bit uneasy.

"...guys?" America said, a bit hesitantly, which was rare enough to take note of. And several Nations immediately began thinking of other situations where America would be hesitant, uncertain of himself - inexperienced and, better still, ready to be led. It was a surprisingly attractive picture, even without the sheer novelty value.

There was a collective intake of breath, and a subtle wave of motion, like a pack of wolves snuffling the wind before the hunt. America's hand dropped to his side, where he carried his beloved Colt .45 in a concealed holster, as he eyed the crowd warily and began to tense. America did not run from danger! ... but America wasn't stupid enough - despite the allegations - not to case out exit strategies so he could come back and kick ass, when literally the entire world seemed to be eyeing him like something they wanted to slash into pieces with sharp knives, fry at a barbecue, then eat. Or feed to their dogs. Oh god, was that it? He'd been trying to ignore that public opinion of him had been dropping faster than France's pants when he wanted sex, but - was this it? Was this when the rest of the world ambushed him and attacked him and .... America squared his shoulders, hand now clenched tightly around his gun.

(If the other Nations knew what was going on in his head, it would confirm what many of them thought, that America had a habit of missing nuanced messages or misinterpreting them, for example 'lustful interest' for 'homicidal rage'.)

The Nations inched nearer, closing around America in charged silence, while America began to back towards the door, eyes flickering from face to face while he clutched at his Colt .45 and then the Smith and Wesson .38 on his other side, and drew comfort from the two other backup guns nestled in the small of his back and on his ankle.

And then Korea straightened and posed dramatically, and jumpy America was just about to draw his firearm and shoot the Asian nation, more because he had just moved than from any conscious decision, when Korea proclaimed, "The history of America's sexual activities shall originate from me!"

America gaped, and then gaped some more as Korea threw himself on the taller Nation.

Chaos erupted.

***

 

By the time the dust settled, there were four bullet holes in the walls and three in the ceiling (half from America, and half from Switzerland), two broken noses, one broken leg, a good deal of scrapes and bruises, a smashed table, a chair with two legs now missing, four cases of sprained ankles, and someone had thrown up in the corner. America was down - down and pinned, three of his fellow G8 sitting on him while India - who carried rope with her wherever she went - had tied him up.

He glared up at his attackers, silent and jaw set - and gagged with a length of cloth from someone`s torn top. He was half-naked himself, nothing on him but a pair of pants - and those torn - and the rest of his clothes were gone. Canada had his brother's jacket (snatched from France, who'd first gotten it off) but his shirt, socks and shoes were gone as completely as a plate of pasta placed in front of Northern Italy. His four pistols and their holsters were in a neat little arrangement in front of Switzerland, who kept stroking America's antique Colt .45 with loving fingers. He hadn't joined in the general rush for America until someone had taken off America's shirt and he'd seen the three guns his fellow Nation had been packing underneath his clothes.

Not everyone had rushed for him - and the ones who hadn't were perfectly happy to sit back and watch with great interest. Nothing Alfred's Hollywood could produce could possibly compete with the show he was putting on right now, however unwillingly. Snack-foods of several different ethnic origins had materialized and were being shared amiably, mostly crunchy things that served as popcorn did in American movie theaters. The deep-fried pork rinds were an especial favorite.

The remaining contenders (others had been too injured, or had decided their chances were too slim to try, and at least four had decided to have sex with each other instead) gathered in a ring around the tied-up American, none of them unscathed, eyes still bright from sheer adrenaline-rush. They looked down on their prey, on America tied up and helpless below them, and not a single one could deny a thrill at the thought.

But America, even downed and restrained, had weapons at his disposal, and he was giving everyone his best `how could you kick this puppy` look - one he hadn`t used in a while, favoring the 'I could kick your ass' look lately.

Canada, who'd acquitted himself well in the general brawl that had erupted, was the first to fold. (It might have had something to do with the real hurt and betrayal in Alfred's eyes when he'd looked at his northern brother.) He was down and taking off Al's gag before anyone really noticed, murmuring gentle reassurances and apologies and ' _but we had to know'_ s to Alfred.

"Know what?" Alfred asked, blankly, flexing his wrists a little as Matthew loosened - but did not untie - the ropes. The countries gathered around him exchanged long looks.

Matthew was still running buzzed on his earlier beer, and added to that was the adrenaline rush, so he asked the question. "Alfred, who's the first person you slept with?"

Alfred turned red, then white, then red again. The concept of bluffing - he was actually rather good at that - was completely beyond him at the moment, and, fatally, he went with an honest reaction.

"...what business is that of yours?" he demanded, blushing, and the Nations took a deep breath as Alfred's first, unthinking reply confirmed it:

America was still, literally, a blushing virgin.


	3. in which the Bosses come in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some forced kissing in this chapter.
> 
> The Bosses in this fill are _not_ meant to be based on any actual people.

"This is all your fault, England." France was the first to speak.

England, who'd been staring at America with an odd, fixed intensity, snapped his head up and glared.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It is entirely to your blame! _You_ were the one who had given him those damn Puritans. Look how they have retarded his development!"

England sputtered, but to everyone's surprise he calmed down. Completely straight-faced - aside from a wicked gleam in his green eyes - he actually said, "You're right, France."

France immediately felt an urge to check if England was ill, delirious perhaps.

"It _is_ entirely my responsibility," England went on. "I shall now take it upon myself to bring America's sexual education up to date."

"....what?" America gurgled.

France was already shaking his head. "Non, non, Angleterre," he purred, his accent deliberately thickening. "What young America needs is guidance from someone who is actually skilled in the arts of the bedroom."

"France is right!" China said, and observers wondered how often that phrase was going to be used today. "And my long and storied history of four thousand years obviously qualifies ...."

"Excuse me, China-san," Japan interrupted. "But I believe in this case, I am the more qualified. I already have several helpful guides to sexual intercourse, produced over a wide variety of multimedia channels, ones I'm sure America-san will find suitable to his needs....I have already given him similar items, so...."

Italy pushed past them to kneel beside America, beaming, German being pulled along behind him. "Americaaaaa~ why didn't you tell us? Sex is a very awesome thing, like pasta, only it's not food but like the equivalent of pasta in your pants, and Germany and I will be glad to help you...."

"No, I think not," England interrupted, moving closer to America protectively. "I don't think I want Germany's dogs involved in _my_ America's sexual education....and we all know that's how it would end up, you told us yourself, Italy."

"He's not yours anymore, England!" Spain protested.

Japan was politely but acidly telling Korea and China that any 'guides to sexual intercourse' they would produce were only cheap, inferior copies of his own; France was eying Canada - who was still sitting beside his brother's head, stroking his hair gently - and obviously plotting; India was reminding everyone she owned the Kama Sutra, the concept of tantric sex, and the ropes tying America up; Mexico and the countries of South and Central America were discussing how to propose a "Let's Have A Pan-American Orgy You Other Continents Keep Out of It" initiative; Switzerland was smiling widely as he discovered that the gun that had been in America's back holster was a Swiss-made Sig; and Lovino was simultaneously managing the betting action among the observers while keeping an eye on Spain. The observers were munching, video-taping, discussing excitedly, having their own sexual liasions underneath tables....in short, it was chaos.

America's voice, loud, brought the room to a standstill. "Are you all really arguing over who gets to lecture me about sex-ed? Jeez! I know you guys think my school-system sucks, but really..."

There was a collective twitch about yet another example of America's density, which approached in size and severity the status of a black hole, and that was it. England couldn't take it anymore.

He swung himself over America's waist, straddled him, hauled him up by the shoulders, and kissed him hotly.

America gasped, his eyes widening, and panted for breath as England released him - only to gasp again as his head was wrenched to the side and Canada sealed their mouths together. Unseen hands - unseen because Canada's head was blocking his view, and his eyes kept wanting to slide closed, began to tug at his jeans.

When Canada broke for breath, America's head was turned again, more gently this time, and France began laying soft kisses all over his face. America squirmed. There were a few answering gasps and someone tugged on his hair.

The observers licked their lips, almost simultaneously, and began reassessing their chances. They couldn't win America one-on-one, but perhaps joining in the orgy now beginning in the center of the chamber was a possibility...

It was then, while America was tied up and helpless and the other countries either watched hungrily or molested him, that the Bosses walked in to collect their Nations.

 

*** 

There was another moment of charged silence, in a day that seemed full of them. The Bosses gaped at their Nations. The Nations gaped back at their Bosses.

America's Boss was the first to speak. "...are you gang-raping my country?" he asked, blankly, politely, his hands making involuntary little twitches.

The other Bosses began to sweat as their Nations couldn't find words to even begin to describe what was going on. Visions of an America who felt violated - and they all knew what happened when America felt it had been violated - danced in their mind, along with visions of Tomahawk missiles, airborne troops being dropped into their cities, US Naval carriers sailing into their harbors with decks packed full of fighter aircraft, populaces being forced to watch American cable television.

  
"Nyet," Russia finally answered, which was sadly undermined by the fact that he was kneeling between America's spread legs and he was pulling down America's pants, exposing boxers dotted with little X-Wings and TIE fighters.

"Then why is he tied up, and...and.... why are you stripping him, and why are you...." America’s Boss tried to find an act he could describe decently, couldn't, began to shake.

"Boss..." America said, plaintively, his eyes big and blue and very shiny. No one ever found out what he was going to say, because America's Boss began yelling, American Secret Service began streaming in and pointing guns at everyone, which prompted the other security details to start getting antsy, and then the bosses of Poland began to shriek shrilly as they discovered their Nation in the middle of sex with Lithuania.

When it was over, half-naked America was standing, rather dazed-looking, behind his shorter Boss, who glared at the other countries like an overprotective father (England was visibly miffed, had been stepped on by America's boss while he was collecting Alfred, and had to be held back by his Prime Minister) and the Secret Service were asking people for America's clothes.

They found nothing. (Canada would later drop the leather jacket off - somehow no one would notice him doing so.)

America was shooed away in the hubbub, while no one was looking, somehow. His President stayed a while longer to yell at everyone, but everyone was so busy yelling/questioning/looking for their own Nations that no one answered, and then he left too.

It was an altogether very eventful day.

***

Original AN: thanks for all the nice reactions. I actually have no idea who ought to take his virginity, so...heh. What would you guys do if this was the last part?

 

2019 note: I really had been pondering ending the fill here originally. Instead it became....something else. 


	4. in which the 8th Article is explained

The American administration refused to answer any calls pertaining to America, the Nation, and their replies about issues pertaining to America, the nation, were answered with chill formality.

News of America's reactions began to trickle in from each other rather than from America itself. Canada reported that the border was sealed on the north, and Mexico reported the same from the south - adding that the Organization of American States had sent a sixty-page Let's Have Pan-American Harmony(Orgy) proposal and it hadn't been sent back, so they were looking forward to this year's Summit of the Americas. (Climax of the Americas, they'd suggested renaming it.)

None of the European or Asian nations had been able to get that far, although to be fair they were sending things like extremely explicit yaoi manga and games (Japan and Korea), or pornographic films (France and Germany - though Ludwig sputtered and claimed it was Gilbert's fault) or rather suggestive rock sculptures (Australia) or requests to film any subsequent 'lovely encounters' (Hungary), or extremely beautiful, masterful oil paintings of America and Italy and a blond who looked like an idealized Germany copulating in idyllic sylvan glades, (Italy) or a letter from China suggesting America be allowed to work off his debt with his body.

(That one had been sent first, and Japan had been heard speculating that it was China's fault that the Americans were regarding everything from Asia as if it was infected with some new virulent plague.)

The UN Secretary-General, bemused, had finally called a General Meeting of the nations. They assembled in Geneva (the Americans refusing to let the Nations into New York), and the room was buzzing with anticipation.

But America's boss walked in alone, surrounded by Secret Service, and glared around at everyone. He sat down, ignoring the shouted questions of where Alfred was, and politely asked the Secretary-General for permission to address the UN.

From the podium, he coughed, straightened his lapels, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders.

Everyone was listening, sitting alertly, some half-rising from their seats in readiness.

The President of the United States looked pained, like a man facing a root canal - something painful he had to get through, but would be powerless throughout.

"I am here to address the Nations of the world on the behalf of the United States of America," he began, formally, and then coughed again, colored a bit, and glanced down at his notes.

The room was hushed. Someone dropped a pen, and the clatter of the plastic was audible all through the room.

The President ignored it, opened his mouth once, twice, without saying anything -- then flung up his hands and looked exasperated. "Look, I'll say it straight. None of you Nations," the capitalization of the word was very audible in his voice, "are _ALLOWED_ to have sex with America. So stop asking! And please stop sending our government obscene ...materials in diplomatic pouches!"

He glared at Mexico, who was nearest of the Latin American Nations. "And we would also appreciate it if the official communications between our countries were not so laden with innuendo. I would like to take this chance to state that the United States is against changing the name of the Summit of the Americas to anything else."

A clamor began to rise, and the President hung his head. The Nations were shouting, but their bosses were either smirking, or looking suspiciously blank-faced, or outright laughing - Italy’s Boss was actually crying with laughter - and every American in the room dreaded the inevitable jokes to follow that announcement. America was not allowed to have sex. No one was going to let that pass up.

The President raised his hand again. "Right, I suppose only a full explanation will make you stop," he said wearily. "It's not something he can break in vain, you know. It's part of our constitution."

"It is _not_ ," said England and France at once, both being quite versed on the American constitution from Revolutionary days.

"It is," the President replied. "It's not told to anyone who doesn't need to know, but it's the Eighth Article of the United States Constitution. You can see it on the original one - if you hold it up to the light. It - ah - was written especially for the point of forbidding America to have ...intimate relations with other Nations."

There was a long pause.

"...why?" Holland asked, looking horrified.

The President sighed again and rubbed his temples. "It's called Washington's Eighth, you know. It was put in at his insistence. He - Alfred was fighting at his side. And from what I've heard, Washington was very fond of Alfred. They shared a bond like - there's a reason he's called Father of our Nation, you know." He carefully avoided any mention of who Washington and young America had been fighting, but everyone around England shifted a few inches away, while the green-eyed Nation set his jaw very firmly.

"And, uh. Washington was ...he worried that... " The President was staring at the podium, and then took a sip of his water bottle, and shifted into a voice vaguely sing-song, suggesting he'd resorted to quoting. "Insofar as America is a new, young Nation, in order to minimize the risk of being swayed back to the side of tyranny and servitude by the wiles and blandishments of other, older Nations who may yet hold dangerous appeal to our Nation's heart due to false trappings and experiences, America is not to engage in intimate relationships with other Nations, and restrict himself to friendly but controlled Alliances."

There was another pause, then slowly every head turned to stare at England - because every Nation who had ever met either England or America knew very well who that Eighth Article was meant for.

England was pale and trembling, his fists clenched. America had - that Washington had - there had been a chance he would have come back...!

"As you know, Washington recommended very strongly that America not concern itself with politics outside our homeland. He even more firmly insisted that Alfred not concern himself with ...well..." The President trailed off.

"America is bound by the Constitution. That Article in particular, because it refers to America the Nation -- it was written in America's blood. I mean, from him." And every Nation sat up, because Nations could give blood - as in their own, from their physical manifestations, not the blood that flowed in their countrymen's veins, which was shed far too often - only very rarely.

"So...you see..." He looked out at the packed auditorium. "America is free. And we mean to keep him free, too, from emotional entanglements, or messy affairs, or ....other things," he said, as firm and determined as a good father defending his young offspring's virtue. "Thank you for understanding, and I hope with this we can resume normal relationships."

He stepped down.

"Not if I can help it," muttered several Nations, under their breaths.

 

***

AN:

"Washington dedicates a large part of his farewell address to discussing foreign relations and the dangers of permanent alliances between the United States and foreign nations, which he views as foreign entanglements...Washington makes an extended reference to the dangers of foreign nations who will seek to influence the American people and government...Washington goes on to urge the American people to take advantage of their isolated position in the world, and to avoid attachments and entanglements in foreign affairs, especially those of Europe, which he argues have little or nothing to do with the interests of America."

-Wikipedia article on "George Washington's Farewell Address".

(which I had not actually read when making this fill, so I accidentally aligned my story to actual Washington canon more than I thought, LOL)

The Organization of American States (Spanish: Organización de los Estados Americanos, Portuguese: Organização dos Estados Americanos, French: Organisation des États américains), or the OAS or OEA, is a continental organization that was founded on 30 April 1948, for the purposes of regional solidarity and cooperation among its member states. Headquartered in the United States capital Washington, D.C., the OAS's members are the 35 independent states of the Americas.


	5. in which England starts his hunt

England stayed up late that night, guzzling tea like someone had announced America was going to throw it all into the sea. He had a lot of thinking to do.

This Eighth Amendment business made the last two hundred years of interacting with his wayward colony suspect. America hadn't _meant_ to reject all his tentative-angry advances - he'd been _forced_ to. Or he just hadn't the experience - and all along he’d assumed America was one of the most promiscuous countries ever to live, what with all the Nations he interacted with - to understand they _were_ advances.

Well. He'd _like_ to think that, it was better for his ego, but what if that wasn't the case? What if it wasn't that America was inexperienced but that he never thought - never could think - of Arthur in that way? What if he did know but was toying with Arthur?

He didn't know. _He just didn't know._ How much was Alfred, how much was it Alfred being constrained by that *several unprintable words* Washington?

And then, the fact that America was still a virgin meant that every country in the world would be seeing an opportunity. What would it be like to be America's first? What would it be like to be the one to introduce America to the pleasures of carnal relations, how would America regard them after, what would it be like to be America's bedfellow?

To have America attached to you - to have a hold on the heart of the last remaining superpower on earth. What would that be like? What could it mean for you?

England knew very well that every other country on Earth was thinking this. With that at stake, Alfred's President was being worse than naive if he thought that a little thing like Constitutional Law would keep his Nation safe. The Nations would be after Alfred's affections and attention and virginity, the same way wolves chased after meat.

All this bounced around in his head, and he was even trying to chart out the countries most likely to succeed, the countries who would be least likely to abuse the position of America's lover, the ones most likely, and he didn't figure himself into the elaborate Venn diagram, of course...

But most of his mind was taken up by imagining how sweet it would be if _he_ was the first. How it would be like to be the most important Nation in America's eyes, to be the only thing America thought of during their coupling, to gently guide him into the discovery of how sweetly the body could sing, to see America's eyes alight with pleasure, the wonder of new discoveries - to be the one America, Alfred, followed...to own that corner of America's heart, so absolutely....

It was such an old dream, it hurt to think about it. He'd wanted Alfred for so long, before it had been right to want him, and it had wrenched every strand of self-control he had to keep acting normal around his America, so boyishly reckless, so innocently ignorant. And then before he knew it America was all grown up and tall and strong and moving away from him. Moving towards _France_.

He'd tortured himself with that image, of Francis expertly manipulating Alfred's body the way only Francis could do it, of France seducing America, _his_ America, of France stealing that one thing England had wanted so absolutely and so all-consumingly the way France always stole things from him. It'd been torture even when he was pretending he didn't love America anymore, when he'd told everyone who'd listen that Alfred was nothing but an overgrown brat and not worthy of consideration, much less desire...

He thought he'd long ago lost that chance, to be the first, maybe the only, to Francis. To find out he hadn't...

Second chances didn't come along very often, much less a second chance at something like this. England drained his tea, took his hand out of his pants, and made a decision. Well. It wasn't like there had been any real doubt over what he'd do.

That very same evening, he was on a private plane to America.

***

The logical thing for Alfred to have done was to remain in Washington, DC. His overprotective Boss was there, as well as legions of people carrying firearms and formally trained in their usage (the latter rarer than the former in the United States) belonging to government bodies referred to by mysterious initials and all of them just longing to shoot anyone who threatened their country. There were embassies there to complain to if their Nations started to harass America, and crowded urban environs for him to hide in.

It was the logical thing to have remained there, and safe, and watched over; so of course England was hardly surprised when he found America was definitely not in his capital city.

He arrived very early in the morning, before the sun rose, and spied several other planes at Reagan National Airport; SwissAir, Air France, Qantas, Iberia. All of them flag carriers, and he would wager the Tower of London and all it held that they would be carrying their Nations to America. And this was only one of the airports that serviced Washington.

He disembarked the fastest he ever had disembarked, jumping out of the emergency-released doorway with the same knack he had used to jump down the side of his old galleon-ship, while the crew gaped at him.

There was something about the situation that reminded him vividly of his piratical days, the sense of dangerous questings on uncertain seas, the knowledge of ruthless and powerful rivals, the hunting-intent -- the search for booty. (He had to swallow slightly hysterical laughter at that last thought.) For a moment he fancied he could feel the weight of his old cutlass on his hip, taste a salt-tang of the ocean on the wind...but the weight was his cellphone and the air smelled like airplane fuel. He took out his cellphone to ring up the British Embassy and advise them of his coming; in this day and age, his iPhone (a present from Alfred; and that he'd given iPhones to everyone in the G20, including - pointedly - China, didn't detract from the thought - much) was a much deadlier weapon than his cutlass, however beloved.

He didn't see any of the other Nations in the airport, nor as he slid into a taxi-cab, though he thought he could hear someone calling him to "Wait! Wait!" - consequently he gave the driver an extra twenty to drive as fast as he could away from the airport.

He headed for his embassy first, as much for the chance to change into less rumpled clothing than anything else - but he turned out to be glad he did. He was briefed by an obviously excited "Six" man as he pulled on a smart suit, who told him that the 'man' known as Alfred F. Jones was believed to have left the city; and that other nations were also showing a keen interest in his whereabouts.

Just as he'd thought- the other Nations had no doubt explained to their Bosses the potential gains of becoming America's first (and thus far only) lover, and gotten the go-ahead to chase him. Just as he had, though he hadn't gotten much of a chance to stammer anything to his Bosses before the Queen told him to go catch the British Air flight she'd arranged for him. (" _Finally_ , Arthur. I have been awaiting this since I was twelve years old. Be sure to bring him back here for tea after you win.")

The MI6 agent was telling him how Washington was practically crawling with intelligence types - everyone from Mossad to what was no longer the KGB (but everyone knew it was) to Chinese intelligence (who`d formerly been disguised as university students) and, of course, their own people.

"The Yanks are in an evil mood," he added. "I imagine it's akin to having someone arrange a party in your house, and no one bothered to inform you. They've been throwing every agent they can grab into custody, and that on top of looking for Mr. Jones themselves. They haven't nabbed anyone from our shop as of yet, but..."

"I understand," England told him. "Tell our lads to be careful - let's have the US focusing their ire on the other countries. But if they do hear anything, pass it onto me immediately." He was already heading for the door.

"Mr. Kirkland, sir? Where are you going?"

England paused, and grinned a sharp, predatory smile, showing his teeth. He wished he had a hat to cock rakishly. "I'm going hunting."


	6. in which Canada is the hero

The funny thing was that, for once, Canada was glad that people seemed to regard him as invisible; that they looked through him as if he were made of smoky glass, and didn't see him, only the figure of his brother behind him. It was annoying, and sometimes downright depressing - but at the moment it was the most useful thing in the world for him.

Because everyone was looking for America, and Canada had the best chance of finding him.

They shared a bond, the United States and Canada, the two brothers of North America, with their lands touching and their borders unguarded, the same age and the same guardian-mentors, if at different times and at different dosages. Canada was so good at getting into his brother's head and understanding what America was thinking that sometimes he really worried if what _he_ was thinking were Canadian thoughts and not American. (At times like that he went and watched the CBC until he felt better.)

The European countries who had shaped them were undeniably a part of their lives; but they didn't have the land-sense, the sense of belonging, and....they just didn't. He did. Like a dog on scent, Canada tracked America all through his brother's states, and he knew, just _knew_  how to, the way he knew when Quebec was feeling unruly or when Vancouver was shaking from the burden of the Olympics, things he felt deep down in his bones without bothering to give proof to his senses first.

So he tracked America, and tried not to think about if his gift would wane if America wandered too far to the south, and if Mexico could do the same there. He went through Minnesota and the Dakotas, sidestepping China, Korea and Japan, who were all huddled around some sort of beeping handheld device, had a good lunch in Kansas, veered left into Colorado where he thought he caught sight of Switzerland and an exasperated-looking Austria, and continued to Cheyenne Mountain, where some Canadian personnel were based too. NORAD gave him some useful information _and_ a jet-fighter ride to Alaska.

He had time to think as the F/A-22 Raptor screamed its way into the night-sky. And his thoughts made him laugh, a little self-deprecatingly, at himself. For once Canada was in a position of better tactical advantage than just about anyone else in the world; and he would, in all probability, not be able to take advantage of that fact, because he was not flying to seduce his brother, but to talk to him.

Oh, France would be so ashamed of him.

But that's what he wanted, he realized. Not that he didn't find America attractive. He did. Not that he hadn't had strange, hot-colored dreams about America in the privacy of his bed. He had. But he needed America as his brother more than he wanted him as his lover, and he remembered the lost look on America's face when everyone had started kissing him.

He just wanted to - to _talk_ to him. To make him see that not everyone would force him - not Canada, anyway, who didn't like forcing people, and if America wanted something he wouldn't be running away, right? He wanted to listen to America's fears, because he could see that America was afraid and confused, and he wanted to help America understand, and he wanted America to _rely on him_. Canada, unlike most of the other Nations, was young enough to remember _his_ first time with fairly vivid clarity, and the uncertainty of it, and the cold belly-twisting anxiety and nervousness and fear, and he hadn't even had Washington - he remembered how much his brother adored Washington - actually scribing a prohibition against that behavior on his Constitution, in his own blood...

They landed, and Canada set out to a place as cold and windy as anything in his northernmost reaches. He wore snow-gear and he was Canada, a Northern country, and something like this would hardly kill him, of course.

And then he caught sight of America.

Kneeling. In the snow.

And Russia loomed behind him, tipping his brother's head backwards, smiling sweetly down at his brother's upturned, slack face, and how could Canada see all this so clearly through the snow, and Russia was pushing a syringe into America's throat, and there was something in the glass tube being pushed into his brother's veins, and Canada screamed and threw himself forward.

****  
No one remembered it, and America made as much fun of his football players as Canada made of his hockey players, but Canada had actually been the place where what the North Americans called football was established - by some of Arthur's soldiers, actually, playing modified rugby against students at McGill University, and when Matthew had demonstrated the new game to his brother at Harvard, America had fallen in love with the violent new ball-game. And so had Canada.

In short - Canada could do a righteous take-down, and the one he performed would have made Reggie White proud. He came in hard and fast, driving off the ground, tackling Russia blindsides. It was more the element of surprise than anything that determined his success, but Canada took what he could. The bigger country stumbled, not quite falling, but losing his grip on America. Running on pure adrenaline, Canada grabbed his brother before he could hit the ground, half-falling himself as he tried to regain his balance from the tackle. He kept his feet by a miracle, managed to haul America along by another, and retreated into the whirling white chaos of the blizzard just now kicking up.

The snow was so thick by now that Canada, despite copious blinking, could hardly see anything more than a violent whorl of snowflakes in front of his eyes. America was a limp weight in his arms, which sent a cold feeling through Canada's stomach. America was never still, never passive and draggable like this. He was always restless, always moving. What - had - Russia - done....

He jumped at a shape looming out of the corner of his vision, but it was only a flurry of wind-driven snow. For a moment, as it swept by the North American twins, it seemed to take the vague form of a large bear, and the wind carried the suggestion of a low, rumbling growl. Then he blinked, shook his head to shake off the snow settling on his eyelashes, and the illusion was lost.

He swallowed for air with a noise almost like a sob, then he squared his shoulders, and hoisted his brother into a fireman's carry. He staggered a bit under America's weight, but he could carry him. With a muffled prayer, one of the earliest Francis had taught him, in French, he backed into the howling, icy darkness, braving the blizzard's fury rather than Russia's.

***

"....Ah, I see. So, my general, you walk their lands as well."

***


	7. in which there is snuggling

Canada walked, and walked, and walked, and somehow he found himself in his Yukon Territories, with no idea how much time had passed - all he knew was the snow, and the cold dark, and his brother's weight not warm enough on his shoulders. He stumbled into a tiny little outpost of a clinic, well-equipped if small.

The doctor and nurse, roused from their nearby houses, fussed over the two brothers like motherly hens, more so when they looked into Canada's deep-blue eyes and realized with the instant certainty of a countryman who they were treating. As a Nation, Canada wasn't really in danger of winter damage unless certain extreme conditions were passed, but he didn't say no to the cup of hot cocoa the nurse pressed on him. He hovered fretfully over America as the doctor tried to make the other nation comfortable.

He wondered what had been in that syringe Russia had injected America with. The doctor, a bit bemused, drew some of Alfred's blood for testing. While waiting, Canada clambered into the bed with his brother, clutching America to himself and trying to impart some of his warmth. America's skin was clammy-cool, and he hadn't opened his eyes. His heartbeat was racing, and his pallor was grayish; and he wouldn't stop shivering. Canada hugged him and crooned old lullabies, starting from English to French to a half-unconscious song in some half-forgotten tongue, something from their forest-dark babyhood days before England and France. He tried to convince himself it was having some effect, while he stroked his brother's sweat-soaked hair.

It was in this way, the twins huddled together while Canada crooned to America in unknown words, that England and France staggered inside the room.

***

Canada didn't look up at them, didn't say anything, just continued to sing his half-remembered song into his brother's hair. England and France - who bore distinct signs of having brawled with each other - exchanged glances, then cautiously came closer.

"It was Russia," Canada said, finally, a long time later, after the last, long liquid notes faded away from his lips. America slept on his brother's chest, still gray and still too cold and too shuddering, but Canada thought (hoped) he was less so than before.

England and France started at that, stared. England clenched a fist. "He..."

"He stuck Al with something," Canada continued, tracing Alfred's throat lightly with one fingertip, skirting the little mark that showed where the needle had entered. "Injected him. I think whatever he injected Al with - made him like, like this..." Canada's voice, previously steady, began to shake.

France laid a hand on his former protege's shoulder, but that sympathetic gesture only seemed to undo him - Canada began to shake as much as his brother.

" _Ce n'est pas grave, mon chaton,"_ he crooned, in much the same tone Canada had been using to sing to his brother earlier - a tone Canada had learnt, unconsciously, to associate with warmth and safety from the deepest, earliest memories of the cold that he could come up with. France used the same old endearment he had used for Canada in those days, as well, because he hadn't seen his "little cat" so distraught in a while.

"Russia," Canada gasped out. "Russia was going to - to r-r..." He couldn't get the word out. "America would never...if he had been, by Russia, and he didn't want it, and he forced him...he'd never be the same after, he'd..."

France half-climbed onto the bed, one knee on the edge, so he could hug the babbling Canada. "Shh....shh...."

"We can't let Russia near him!" Canada insisted shrilly. England interjected, in a tone that France hadn't heard from him in ages, a tone that spoke of British strength in the depths of wars, "We won't."

Canada looked at them, and wondered if he should be ashamed to be so grateful that they were there - how were they there?

"We - we felt something was wrong," England admitted, haltingly, when Canada asked. "My friends showed...."

Canada and France exchanged glances, as they usually did when England referred to his 'friends'.

"As for me, _mon chaton_..." France laid an affectionate kiss on Canada's forehead, and Canada kept remembering... "I felt _you_."

England watched them, was reminded himself of long-ago days. And wondered, once again, as he often wondered - but never admitted - how much he had truly hurt his old rival by snatching away Canada - New France, he'd been called sometimes, just as America had been - still was, in part - New England.

Canada leaned against the taller blond, adjusting his hold on America so both would be more comfortable. America stirred slightly, and England surged out of his seat, but the gray-faced Nation did not wake - only murmured something in a distressed tone, then subsided again. He shivered less, though, as England hovered beside the bed and cupped his old charge's cheek in one gloved hand.

Land-sense, connection. Canada and America had that, but now he was reminded of other connections, other links. He leaned against France and watched England worry over America, and felt safe enough, under the watchful eyes of the older nations, to sleep.

***

When he next woke up, they were in a larger bed - he hadn't felt them being moved - and it was large enough to accommodate all four of them. His arms were still around America, and he could feel France lying at his back, a comforting warm presence. He lifted his head a little to see England laying on America's other side, still awake, watching his brother's face with intense green eyes. England glanced over, gave Canada a small smile which he returned.

America was warm now, his skin back to its usual golden tan, his breathing steady and regular. Canada heaved a sigh of relief, lay his head back down and nuzzled into the nape of his brother's neck. It had been an eventful day.

***

  
It was to become more so. When Canada next woke up, England was asleep, as was France - and America was gone.

 


	8. in which there is a chase scene

The three of them immediately set out in chase, using the linkages all three of them had to America to track him as he ran south. What followed played, ever after in Matthew's memories, like a blurred, manic, sped-up parody of a road-trip-comedy movie. On acid.

They jacked a mud-caked truck from someone's driveway (Canada made sure to leave an official note apologizing politely and telling the owner that Ottawa would immediately compensate him, on official Canadian state letterhead). The man had left the keys in the ignition. They raced southwards, and at some point - they'd stopped for gas, bathroom breaks, and gas-station food (Francis had politely refused to even look at the food, which he referred to with nearly visible quotation marks), and to be informed by the gas-station attendant that while Canada was asleep and not able to play navigator, England and France had managed to drive fifty-seven miles off course - Kumajirou had ambled casually into the truck. Canada had taken to clutching him for comfort and perhaps to get into the crash position as England and France took turns piloting the truck into behaving like it was a runaway bull. Kumajirou's fur was covered with snow. Soon enough the snow began to melt, and then the truck smelled like wet bear.

At some point, they almost ran into a moose. The moose then began to chase the truck, bellowing mightily. As England broke the speed limit, cursing in a low steady chant, France asked Canada in all seriousness if it was true that there were more moose-related deaths in Canada than crime-related.

Canada buried his face into Kumajirou's fur and counted to fifty, then a hundred. He stopped at eighty-six because England and France needed him to give directions again.

At some point they found a Canadian air base and used England and Canada's authority (France made an under-his-breath comment about England sticking his nose in) to get a CH-146 Griffon helicopter and a pilot, who was mildly confused as to why three young men and a polar bear cub were to be ferried to the American border post-haste, but was game enough.

At least he was, until suddenly they were confronted by three Apache attack helicopters hovering around them, while an angry, excited voice with the distinctive twang of the American southwest demanded they set down on the Canadian side of the border. There was an audible whir and clack as the other two Apaches armed weapons.

Before the pilot could do anything, France shouted, “ _Montjoie! St Denis!"_ and jumped out of the helicopter with a parachute strapped to his back.

England and Canada exchanged long glances, shrugged, and grabbed their own parachutes before following France's lead.

When they landed, they found France already in the process of hot-wiring a car, which they subsequently used in a fifty-five minute long escape from irritated and yelling border guards. France drove, whooping, while Canada and England made frantic calls to their embassies.

Someone must have got through, because the border guards stopped chasing them at some point. And then the car ran out of gas. In the middle of nowhere.

Canada began to weep a bit hysterically into an almost offensively calm Kumajirou's fur.

***

In the end, they had to push the car down the deserted road, hoping to run into civilization (and tow-trucks) soon. The worst part of the ordeal was not the actual labor, or how desert-searingly hot the air would get once the sun rose, or that there were apparently no cell-towers close enough to give their phones reception. No, it was having to watch England putter around with thin air in front of the car, insisting that he was yoking his unicorn to help them pull it.

"With _what_ ," France asked flatly as he watched his old companion go through all the motions of hitching a horse to a carriage, only there was no horse, no harness, and no carriage.

"Magic rope," England answered, completely sincere. He held up a hand as if displaying something to them - his hand was empty. "Made from the footstep of a cat; the roots of a mountain; a woman's beard; the breath of fishes; the sinews of a bear; and a bird's spittle."

"You stole that from the Scandinavians," France accused him, and for a moment Canada was afraid France was going to join in the delusion, that the desert sun had baked his brains. "That's from their legends of Ragnarok!"

"Can we just get moving!" Canada interrupted them, his voice raised. It was such a rare occurrence that England and France stared. Canada couldn't care - he was on edge, and Kumajirou had wandered off again, and it was fuckin' hot, eh, and what if his poor virgin big brother was getting his virgin ass molested by one of the horde of perverted opportunists the UN had revealed themselves to be?

He stomped to the back of the car and began shoving, and then France and England joined in, and they pushed and shoved and grunted and Canada told himself he _hadn't_ heard a faint whinny from in front of them, he hadn't.

  
***

The gas-station was a rusty, broken-down affair, complete to the creaking rocking chair from which the dirty, gap-toothed, tobacco-stained old proprietor watched them stagger, wheezing, into the property.

The pumps were old rusty things, self-service of course, where the numbers ticked by on flip-gauges, and the gas rattled alarmingly as it oozed into the gas-tank. They were hungry, so with some trepidation they checked out the tiny closet of a store to see what they could eat.

They would have been better off starving. The 'foodstuffs' slowly turning odd colors in the display case were the type to revolt even Alfred's own people. France actually began to cry when he looked at what the proprietor had allowed to be done to bread and meat. England turned his nose up at it, and Canada and France actually agreed that England's cooking would be bet -- only _just as_  inedible, and that in a less horrifying way. Like the difference between a quick death, and a slow, lingering, yellow-mayo'd one.

They fled back to the car, bile rising in their throats, and peeled out as soon as possible.

The rocking chair _creaaaa~aaked_ as the old man leered after the car.

***

They rolled along for many more miles of hot, non-AC, argument-filled torture. They couldn't get through to their embassies and neither Arthur's iPhone nor Canada's Blackberry Storm could go onto the GPS network. (France had smashed his own cellular phone while parachuting in).

But they could feel themselves catching up to America the whole time.

They rolled to a stop somewhere in Nevada, piling out of the much-abused car so that they could stretch their legs, check the maps, or, so that Canada could check the maps while England and France scuffled and kicked dirt onto each other`s shoes.

"...so, you're here too. I suppose that means we're on the correct track."

The three blond Nations raised their heads sharply, and found themselves facing Korea, Japan, and China.


	9. in which America rides a horse

_Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,_  
_Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment seat;_  
_But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,_  
_When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!_

-Rudyard Kipling, " **The Ballad of East and West** "

* * *

 

The East stared at the West, and the West stared at the East, and the West was painfully aware how they stacked up in comparison.

China, Japan and Korea were looking impossibly dapper in well-tailored suits (England wondered for a moment if Hong Kong's famous tailors had crafted them for the Asian powers), their dark hair neatly combed - even Korea's was behaving. A blast of dry, air-conditioned wind, cold as the breeze off the Arctic sea, swept from the inside of their shiny Nissan Pathfinder to swirl around the three Western Nations. The unbelievable strength of the air-conditioning explained why the Asians could comfortably wear their blazers in the blazing desert heat, and also reminded the Westerners how sweaty, gritty, and downright unkempt they had gotten from their mad, harried chase of Alfred across thousands of miles of North America - with only one set of clothing apiece, and that heavy-duty winter gear (they were down to underwear singlets now, and it was only via much argument and outright threats - it was the one from Canada that had decided it - that France wasn`t actually naked). Also, they had traveled with a bear, a wet bear at the start, and the scent-markers of that fact were unmistakable.

They felt distinctly grubby compared to the neat, clean, cool Asians, and were downcast by that fact. Japan was holding up some insanely sleek and multifunctional-looking piece of electronics gear in his hand, and he studied its screen as it let out a discreet tone, the electronic equivalent of a butler`s quiet cough.

"I told you, didn't I?" Japan's first words were to his two brothers. "America-san's ...unique presence is very distinct . I have spent enough time with him to study it at length - and my tracker can follow the traces of his passage." Korea looked a little disgruntled, and Japan was actually visibly smug. It must have meant he was very happy about showing up his brother. China's face, in contrast, was studiously blank, and he was studying England, France and Canada with eyes that spoke of being the most ancient Empire in the world.

Canada straightened from studying the map spread out on the hood. The car bounced slightly, and the three Westerners pretended they hadn't heard the sound of the rear bumper falling off. The Asians, aside from a single flicker of their eyes, were polite enough to follow the ruse.

"Hello, China. Japan. Korea." England dropped the names with the drawling, dismissive tone that only the British could attain, managing to look at ease even in a sweat-stained singlet and fleece-lined ski pants he'd cut off at the knees.

"England."

"France."

"Canada."

Each of the Asian nations took turns politely bowing their heads and saying a name, and Canada felt a chill when he realized they had really agreed to work in concert. Japan - Korea - and China. He would confidently pitch himself, England and France against any of them on their own, even any two of them together, but the three of them?

France leaned against the car (England and Canada silently prayed the other bumper did not also fall off), managing to project an air of luxuriant ease despite the obstacle of his actual physical condition. " _Mes amis,_ how strange to run into you here."

China and Japan opened their mouths to deliver diplomatic replies, but Korea beat his two more reflective brothers to the verbal draw. "Why? We're here hunting America, just like you."

Every one of the other Nations sputtered denials and qualifications and protests of Korea's blunt reply, even France. Korea only shrugged. "That's what we're doing, isn't it?"

No one could find a good answer. And before anyone could, there was a wild, ringing neigh, and before their astonished eyes, a palomino mustang burst into view, raising a cloud of dust as it galloped through the desert an unbelievably short distance from the highway.

And riding the mustang, bareback and clinging to the long, unkempt mane, was America.

***  

  
Canada wondered if America was so in love with his Hollywood, his shiny, gleaming, reality-denying, hyper-showy movie-making playground, that its effects bled over into the air of the rest of America. Because he swore that America was moving in dramatic slow motion, and that the sun's light was perfect as it struck him - too perfect, like maybe someone was positioning it as carefully as a spotlight. His hair didn't shine that gold usually, right? And was his vision _zooming in_ on America?

His mind raced and blanked at the same time. All he could do was look at America, take in every little, insignificant detail, instead of doing something useful like...like...

Well, something.

America had been wearing a flimsy hospital gown last he saw; somewhere along the line he had gotten his hands on new threads. Perhaps he had mugged a cowboy - or, America being America, perhaps he'd won it off a cowboy in a game of poker, or a drag-race, or some other macho, red-blooded-American-male competition of some sort. (Canada remembered the time America had won someone's house, ranch spread and about fifteen horses based solely on his ability at spitting tobacco juice)

It had to have been a cowboy, because his new clothes were stereotypically cowboy - a black Stetson bouncing at the back of his neck, its laces the only thing keeping it from flying off altogether, cowboy boots, jeans. He _was_ missing a shirt, however, not that Canada could really bring himself to regret that fact. He did worry a bit that America would get a sunburn, riding out in the sun like that all bare-chested, and --- and bronzed, and muscled, and...really, he'd thought Al had gotten fatter than that. Perhaps he'd lost weight, fleeing all over his lands and dodging every other Nation in the UN? And...

He shook his head and tried to concentrate. He opened his mouth to say something, paused to make sure he wasn't openly drooling.

He saw the others staring as well. Not surprising, even if they hadn't all gathered here because of a shared goal of, as Korea put it, hunting America. America, bare-chested and bronzed and looking like a fangirl's idealized daydream of Brokeback Mountain come to life, would be enough to make anyone look twice. Mmm...

He shook his head again, opened his mouth for his second attempt at trying to say something useful, but this time he was interrupted.

Their heads whipped to the side, just in time to see a bright chestnut leap into view, obviously chasing the palomino. And it, too, had a rider - a young man, dressed like a stockman, head thrown back and whooping, one hand on the chestnut's reins and the other waving some blue cloth in the air as he chased after America. Canada squinted, heard England swear.

It was Australia.

' _Oh_ ,' thought Canada, as whatever Australia was holding streamed out like a banner. ' _So **that's** where America's shirt got to.'_

***

AN

\- America's riding a palomino because of how much America loves palominos in the show ring, TV, and movies. Trigger, Roy Roger's faithful steed, was a palomino.

\- Australia is riding a chestnut because his famous race-horse Phar Lap, "Australia's wonder horse" was a chestnut.

 

 


	10. in which the chase resumes

Time slammed into slow-motion for England, just as it had for Canada - though he didn't know that - and he stared and stared and stared at America, America all golden in the sun, golden hair and golden skin (so much skin!) on a golden horse, and fuck even the sand was golden and he suddenly remembered Spain telling him that if he'd been the one to catch and hold America - North America, Central America _and_ South America, if Spain had held all the Americas - the name he'd have given Alfred would have Aureliano, 'golden', golden cities, golden child...

But Spain hadn't. He hadn't! Neither had France! No, America was his, England's - had been his...

...no, _still_ was his, bore the memory of England deep in his bones even when they'd been at war - even when America was changing, shifting, taking in the legacies of other Nations, he'd been at bedrock England's - and he would be England's in that final way, that one way he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in before, that one way he thought was forever closed to him, he would lay claim to that part of America's soul and heart forever.

He _would_.

,..of course, it depended on if all these bastards who wanted the same exact thing would stop being better-equipped than he was. How the fuck had Australia found America anyway? How had he gotten America's shirt off? How had he brought his favorite brumby - oh yes, he recognized Australia's horse, how could he not, after all the pictures Australia carried of the beast - to America, and why oh why was God favoring that little wildlife-happy bastard instead of him, England!

He didn't even glance at the car behind him, knowing that there was no way in hell that old thing would outpace the brand-new SUV the Asians were riding...

He felt a warm muzzle nudge him, and turned to see the unicorn looking at him with great, limpid eyes.

Riding. Riding, like America bareback on his mustang, like Australia whooping on top of his brumby.

"But," England said, softly, even as he ran his hand through the pale blue mane. "You're not a horse. You were meant for more beautiful things than to serve me."

The unicorn snorted, a very horsey sound, different, deliberately so, from the usual flute-and-bell music she tended to make, and tossed her head.

"Thank you," England murmured, ignoring the odd looks from the other Nations (good, if his 'insanity' was keeping the Asians from piling into the Pathfinder and immediately setting off). "Oh, thank you. Thank you for this gift, unicorn." He laid his forehead against her neck, breathed in the sweet scent of her, rich soil and clean water and the cool green shadows of his oldest forests. She nickered softly, a more musical sound than any mortal horse's, and nibbled at his hair. He felt a rising giddiness, recognized some of it as adrenaline.

Then he swung himself onto her back, found himself, somehow, neatly straddling an English hunting saddle (how very appropriate) that had that moment shimmered into being.

"Tally-ho!" he called, something in his voice like the clarion note of a hunting horn, and grabbed at silvery reins as the unicorn shot off into the desert.

***

  
England had always been a little bit -- _off_. As far as Canada could remember. He was always a little too - intense, his eyes would focus on the wrong things, and well - those brows. At first he'd thought it was lingering bias, from those days under France, and because back then Alfred had refused to hear a single word against his "Iggy" and would thrash Matthew for it, thus - of course - engendering deeply repressed resentment for the bruising, and the conviction that he was right and America was wrong.

But no, years later, centuries later, and yes he still was one of England's dominions, one of the Commonwealth, and he didn't mean to change that, not like America had ended up doing, not even as rebellious as Australia (Australia who was at the moment closer to America than Canada was, dammit) but even with all that, Canada was quite sure, England was a bit mad. Perhaps it was continually ingesting his own cooking, and anyway he was beginning to believe every Nation was a bit mad anyway. (And more than a bit in a lot of cases).

The way England fawned over thin air and then insisted it was 'fairies' and 'brownies' and 'unicorns' made a strong case for him being classified in the 'more than a bit mad' category. It was a coping mechanism, Canada had concluded, a way to deal with the pressures of millions of subjects, to deal with never sleeping because the sun never went down for him (God knew he and Alfred had enough trouble just with their time zones and Daylight Savings). It was something most Nations had agreed to just smile and nod at.

And of course, here in this blazing desert heat, in poor physical condition from the hellish journey, and the shock of seeing America and Australia re-enacting a chase scene from a Western (or a gay porno involving cowboys, whispers something in Canada's head, a voice with the music of Vancouver streets in it), of course he'd go a bit mad. But they didn't have time, they'd have to get in the car and hope it held out long enough...

...was England hovering? Yes. Yes he was. In mid-air, legs dangling, as if he was astride something.

Oh. Now Canada was going mad too.

But no, wait, he wasn't the only one gaping in slack-jawed shock at England. China, Korea, Japan - even Japan - and France were all staring too. So - so - this wasn't just a one-off hallucination, was it! They all saw - saw....

The space below England shimmered, the by-now familiar wavering of super-heated air. Canada blinked, rubbed at his eyes. Were there sparkles of -- was there sparkling? White sparkles?

England's steed slowly became visible, like a mirage in reverse. At first it looked vaguely blueish, with a white glimmering at the brow that was - that meant --

But there was no such thing as a blue horse. Or a unicorn! Canada blinked, and when he looked again, England was astride a firmly real white horse - a slim-legged, beautifully conformed little thing with a silken mane and tail, and Canada's mind was already trying to insert some soothing, real-world explanation for the whole thing.

It wasn't doing very well, though.

"Tally-ho!" England cried, like this was one of the foxhunts he'd recently banned on his own lands, and the beautiful white pony whickered eagerly and leapt off as fleet as a deer.

Canada, France, and the Asians gaped after him, turned their heads and gaped at each other.

Their eyes, following England again, caught sight of the two other riders chasing each other in the distance, and they were abruptly reminded of the reason for their presence here in Nevada. With one accord they bolted for their respective vehicles.

The car bounced jaggily as France and Canada scrambled in, France hurling himself into the driver's seat. Canada, next to him, glanced forlornly at the bigger, newer car the Asians were riding. "Oh god, we'll never..."

"Of course we will," France declared, turning the key with a will. "It is not the automobile, _mon petite_ , it is the driver that determines the race. Engines, wheels, chassis - all these are secondary to the burning spirit of the man inside the car."

"That explains Citroen," Canada muttered to himself, before being flung back violently as the car roared off the highway in pursuit of their very determined to-not-be-caught quarry.

***

Original AN: I really should be prepping for my English test. But....dammit, Hetalia.

2019 AN: God, I wonder what English test that was. 


	11. in which there is impressive riding

The unicorn's gait was so sweet and light and swift England felt as if he were flying - the arid desert of Nevada flashed beneath the unicorn's cloven hooves in a blur of golden sand and gray-green sagebrush, her motion smoother than silk. England stroked her neck, as much to calm himself as anything. It was a good thing her paces were so perfect, that she was so sure-footed on the treacherous, uneven sand - England's attention was riveted on the figures in the rapidly decreasing distance, watching America turn and yell something loud but incomprehensible at Australia.

Australia only whooped back at him, and whirled the blue shirt that had probably been on America a little while ago above his head. Like the little bastard thought he was at a rock concert!

He was approaching them at an angle meant for interception - he had vague ideas of hurling himself at America and tackling the younger Nation off his mustang, although what to do after that was a bit of a blur. America caught sight of him though, and their eyes met for the first time since England had kissed him at the conference.

England swallowed hard as something - _something_ flashed between them, history and emotion and heat and cold and....

America's horse suddenly reared, neighing shrilly - it was a stallion, England could now see - pivoted neatly on its hind legs and sprang away, away from the angle of interception. Arthur cursed.

Australia was a little late in turning, especially considering the speed at which his powerful horse had been moving, and by the time he'd wrenched his chestnut's head round and set after America, England had caught up, and was galloping side-by-side with his former colony.

"Oy, old man," Australia yelled at him as they pounded after the fleeing America. "Why don't you give up right now? Wouldn't want you to have a heart attack or something trying. Anyway, America likes me better than you."

"He does not!" England yelled back as their horses plunged down a steep incline, slackening their paces for the treacherous ground underfoot. "And who are you calling old?"

"Obviously I'm calling _you_ old, you old man. And he does like me. Who's his good mate, eh? Who's the one wi' wildlife he calls 'fascinating'? I'll tell you right now, it isn't you. All _you_ do is yell at him. And you don't even _know_ what surfing is, do you..."

England's enraged reply was interrupted by a sudden roar - all three of the Anglo Nations twisted to see two cars speeding towards them - the Nissan Pathfinder, no longer so shiny with its undercarriage caked with dust, and - they stared - the car that England, France and Canada had traveled all over the States in, only in much...altered condition.

Altered meaning the much of the body was gone, as was the hood, and windows, and...basically it had become a bench mounted on what remained of the undercarriage. Flames spurted from its exposed engine. Canada was clinging to his seat, visibly terrified even from this distance; France was hunched over the steering wheel, laughing so maniacally it could be heard over the roar of the engines.

And the engines _were_ roaring - by some miracle, or dark magic, or the laws of reality and time and space being shredded by sheer willpower, the flame-belching monster that the car had become was keeping pace with the Asian vehicle.

And both were rapidly catching up to the three riders.

 _"OH FUCK YOU GUYS,_ " America screamed.

"That's exactly what we aim to do, mate!" Australia yelled back, laughter in his voice. America, without looking back, replied with a single upraised finger. Australia only laughed more.

England was about to lecture his wild-eyed colony - the closer one - er, the former colony, of course, he remembered _that_. Anyway, yes, he was about to remind his _former_ colony who he in no way still thought of as being under his command, just like how he had respected all his former Colonies’ independence, yes him, well he was getting ready to tell him that just because they were chasing America down in order to free him of his virginity against his will (but England was sure he`d enjoy it!), there was no need to be _crude_ about it.

He was about to, but at that moment America cut to the side, his horse whinnying as America reined him hard down a rocky gulch into a long, narrow canyon. England and Australia, both formidable horsemen themselves, had to admire the way he took the steep incline - bareback and scowling, one hand pulling his hat onto his head and keeping it there. Of course, the next moment they were following him down themselves. England had a moment`s smug thought of the rivals left in the cars - the canyon was too narrow and too steep for any wheeled vehicles - before he had to direct his attention to staying ahorse, even with the unicorn`s preternatural balance and grace, enough to make a mountain goat jealous.

England hit the level ground first, just before Australia. They chased after the rapidly fleeing America, England smirking to himself as he heard Australia cursing the air blue due to his inability to pass England in the narrow confines of the canyon.

He looked up. The two cars were roaring along above them, following the canyon as well as they could. Their passage scattered sand and rocks into the canyon as they raced along.

England snapped his gaze back front, just in time to see America leap straight through a large boulder. England didn`t have time for more than a `What the bloody --` before the unicorn dove through too.

"A holograph!" He heard Australia yell right behind him. And he spent too long staring at the holographic boulder, because when he turned around again, America was off his horse, and fleeing inside some strange cave - if a cave could be so regularly shaped, and a thick steel door …

…a thick steel door slamming down into place and hiding America from them.

"Oh fuckin' 'ell," Australia and England said, in chorus. The unicorn and brumby snorted agreement.

 

***

  
AN:

\- If possible, please imagine [Cruella de Ville in that last scene when imagining Francis.](https://gph.is/1aRH4sE) :D

\- Australia and America, taught by Hawaii, are where what we now think of as surfing culture developed. Observe that "Australia's Narrabeen" is the only place outside the USA mentioned in the Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA".

\- I remember reading a comment about the Special Relationship between Britain and the USA - "Australians think the special relationship is with them." 

 Trying to decide what other Nations to bring in - if anyone has any ideas, throw them at me please!


	12. in which there is debate

England clambered off the unicorn as soon as he was close to the door. His eyes were already scanning for some tell-tale -- tell-tale _anything_ \-- there had to be some way to get it open from this side! But before he'd taken three steps towards the cave there was an angry stallion scream, and he backpedaled just fast enough to keep from being struck by flailing hooves.

America's golden mount was rearing above him, giving him an evil glare - were horses supposed to do that?! - and looking very much as if he meant to turn England into a reddish smear on the ground. England yelled in shock, but suddenly something flashed in front of him, and then the unicorn was brandishing her horn at the larger mustang. The mustang dropped back to all fours, backing away cautiously with suspicious eyes still on England. He cut left quickly, reminding them why America had been able to outmaneuver them on his back, but the unicorn was faster and moved as well, blocking England off again. The palomino stallion tossed his head, pawing the ground violently. England swallowed hard.

The unicorn belled, a single beautiful note like struck crystal, and rose up on her own hind legs. Hooves like pale blue glass slashed the air, and her perfect, spiral horn glowed brightly. The mustang snorted, but gave way in front of her. The unicorn dropped to all fours, head lowered so her horn pointed at the stallion's chest. Slowly, she began to herd the larger, belligerent animal away from her England, moving like the perfection of England`s best sheepdogs, sinuous motions and subtle leadings and snakelike reflexes. Every rush the still-infuriated palomino made towards England and, later, as they caught his eye, towards Australia and his tall brumby, was deftly headed off by the unicorn and her glowing horn, and they backed - step by step, with half-rearings and buckings and angry clouds of dust kicked up by dancing hooves - until they were out of sight. There was an angry trumpeting, and then some thrashing sounds - then came the thunder of animal speed as they galloped off into the west.

"Well," Australia said, with a low whistle, after a minute. "That was excitin'."

***

They poked around the cave entrance for long enough that the car-riders caught up; Canada was carried piggy-back on France, still gibbering about eyes of flame and long tunnels of light - "Death-light!"

There was a short brief face-off - France dumped poor Canada onto the ground so as to have his hands free lest it turn into a battle - but in the end the seven countries agreed to pool their resources in pinning down the surprisingly elusive America. Once America was actually around to fight over, they decided, that would be when they fought for his favor. Fought, in this case, in some sort of contest. China suggested mahjong - Japan and Korea both proposed gaming marathons, but Japan wanted a card game and Korea wanted a monster session of Starcraft with standard tourney rules - France and England, overthrowing centuries of tradition by agreeing, stated that a drinking contest would be right and proper, and Australia enthusiastically plumped for knifey-spoony.

"This is of course contingent on finding my brother," Canada said sourly, still sitting where he'd been unceremoniously dumped on his keister. "Which we can't, because we're all standing around debating the merits of fucking Starcraft over a fucking Magic: The Gathering/Yugioh hybrid." His uncharacteristic foul language earned him raised eyebrows; France looked at England and silently blamed him for corrupting his sweet Mathieu.

"America likes Starcraft/cardgames," Korea and Japan protested simultaneously.

"That's not the point," England began to say, when China interrupted.

  
"Actually, it is. Why don't we allow America to decide what method we use to determine the, ah, the…first contender, shall we say. After all, America does so like having his own say, does he not, England? It's when people decide things without his input that he begins to get upset." And China smiled a sweet, sweet smile at England.

England growled under his breath.

Canada did too, surprisingly, but - not surprisingly - unnoticed. Then he spoke up. "Why don't we - _shouldn't_ we - just straight-up ask him who he wants to have sex with? If he wants to _at all_?"

They all stared at him.

"If you're going to be all defeatist like that," Korea said, finally, "Why did you come along?"

"To rescue him from rapists!" Canada screamed, leaping to his feet. "Which we're beginning to sound like, damn you!"

"We're not Russia, lad," England said, calmly but urgently, taking Canada by the shoulders. The other Nations jolted visibly at the mention of the big northern country's name. They looked to France for explanation as England continued talking to Canada in a low soothing voice.

"This isn't forcing him. He's just scared, we know he is. He's -- inexperienced. It's unnatural, is what it is. A world power can't be naive about that aspect of world relations. That Washington had no business…we're going to show him how good it can be, how good it is, he'll like it, really he will," England said, earnestly.

Canada squirmed uncertainly under England's hands. "But…"

"Canada - _Matthew_ ," England said, leaning his forehead against Canada's and using the less-known, more intimate human name. "I'd _never_ hurt America in that way, you know that. And despite his crudity, neither would that stupid Frog, I'm sure." He sighed and honesty forced him to admit, "Korea and Japan are friends of America's as well…and China…ah…well, he's a lot more civilized about being America's rival than Russia was, isn't he."

Canada gulped in air, and finally nodded.

From behind, they could hear Japan actually raising his voice. "A DRUG?!"

Canada sighed. "Sorry, Arthur. I guess Russia has got me a little jumpy."

"Understandably so," England said wryly, closing his eyes and remembering the cold pit of fear in his belly when he'd walked in on Canada holding his gray-faced twin. That was another reason - if they didn't, someone less --- savory, might take America's first time, forever taint the experience in those blue, unsullied eyes. Better one of them, right?

Canada glanced at the cave entrance.

"…I think I know how to get inside," he said.

***

2009 notes:

\- Starcraft is hugely popular especially in South Korea.

\- Modern trading card games started in 1993 with Magic: The Gathering.

2019 notes:

Just because England says so doesn't mean he's  _right._  

 


	13. in which Canada fools a computer

Canada moved, not to the cave entrance, but to a patch of rocky cliff wall off to the side, indistinguishable to the eyes of the other Nations from any other bit of wall. Canada seemed to find in it something extraordinary, however, because he stared hard at it, and cocked his head, and squinted, before nodding decisively and setting his hands against the uneven surface. He felt along the wall with purpose, ignoring the curious Nations hovering over his shoulder. He brushed his fingers over each crevice, delicate as a jeweler, and England had to step hard on France's foot when that Nation began to pant.

"Aha!" Canada said, suddenly, his fingers resting on a nubbin of rock no different from any other, and checking France from his vengeance. "Here we go," And he tapped a complicated little pattern onto the rock.

There was a whirring and grinding of gears, but from behind, and the Nations spun to find a console emerging from about fifty yards down and on the opposite canyon wall. It was a sleek and shiny thing equipped with keypads, no less than three bright screens, mysterious glassy orbs protruding in strangely organic fashion at odd places, and a bank of dark glass set at the very top. It all looked as new and clean as if it were set in the climate-controlled, cleaning-serviced heart of some mega-corporation, rather than in a mysterious rotating hiding place in the middle of the Nevada desert.

Canada, nodding to himself, began to walk to it, running his hands through his dark-blond hair as he did so. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, swung into a swaggering walk, and the other Nations, watching, felt as if he had been transformed utterly in that instance, though they had absolutely no idea what had really changed.

Then Canada leaned over and spoke into one of the mysterious glass orbs, and his English was pure American drawl - not the Midwest's, nor the Northern states' that bordered him, nor the standardized English of CNN, but the slow tones of the South, dripping with magnolias and sweet tea.

"This heah's Alfred F. Jones," he drawled into the glass-orb - a mic, they now concluded, of some sort - "Alias, the United States of America. Initiate override of locking sequence, computah."

"Authorization code?" The computer queried in a mild, pleasant female voice - a voice, Japan would later tell them, that sounded identical to the one in America's game "Portal".

"Auth'rization code five-zero-silver-one-three-crimson-glory," Canada said, still letting his words slide along in an uncannily accurate rendition of his brother. He then added, "Darlin'," for good measure.

"Thank you," The computer said. "Please verify identity."

Accordingly, Canada leaned forward to let two thin bars of light play across his face, pressed his eye against another glass orb in order to let it scan his retinal pattern, put his left hand on one screen that began to glow, and used his right to tap out a long string of numerical code. He then leaned into the mic-orb again and began to whistle the opening bars of Dixie.

"Access granted," The computer said, and added, "Y'all come back now, y' hear?"

Canada sighed, let himself relax, finger-combed his hair back down from Alfred-unruliness, and began to walk towards the cave, from whose entrance the door was slowly receding.

He stopped and looked quizzically at his companions, who weren't following. "Well? Are we going in or not?"

"H-how did you know all that?" England demanded.

"Oh," Canada said, and scratched his head. "NORAD. We use joint security measures." He added, "We was - er, were, sorry - we were pretty drunk that night we were coming up with password protocols."

Silently, they followed the North American into the cool darkness of the cave.

***

  
The cave that Canada led them into was well-lit and even-floored; it was fairly obvious that it had been extensively shaped by human hands, if not created entirely by that agency from bare rock. There were fluorescent lights set into the high ceiling. The air tasted fresh and cool, though no methods of ventilation were to be seen anywhere, and there were movie posters up on the walls. To Japan's great satisfaction, one was of 'Akira', and there were two of Kurosawa's films, 'Hidden Fortress' and 'Seven Samurai', sandwiched between a poster of 'The Magnificent Seven' and a series of Star Wars posters.

"This is, without a doubt, Alfred's place," France murmured to Australia, who ignored him in favor of admiring a poster of Pointbreak.

The cave was absolutely silent except for the sounds they made. "Americaaaa~" Korea sing-songed, bouncing ahead of the rest, but there was no reply.

"I say," England said to Canada, strangely deferential. This was all very new to him, and Canada was the only one who had any idea of this place. He hadn't known America had secret strongholds in the desert - well, yes he had, but not like _this_ \- and he hadn't known that he'd share them with his brother. How closely did those two work together anyway? Canada had gotten them in - was the key, so to speak. How curious that he could make America's security system recognized him - but then, he was America's twin brother; identical in every way he could see, usually, and apparently identical enough for biometrics-based security systems. "I say, Canada, what is this for, anyhow?"

"We just hang out here sometimes," Canada said, trotting forward at a good pace. He did not stop to admire the posters - he moved with the careless ease of someone who knows where he is, and had been there before. "It's hard getting here, and honestly we've both got better places in our other states and provinces. It's why I didn't realize where he might have been making off when we got here - he might have been heading for his missile silos, I thought. But this place, these places, there's no cell phone reception and they're secret, and we've got some canned foods and bottled drinks that keep, and we usually haul along some grub when we come anyway, and there's a Sega Saturn, I think…and…" He stopped and stared in horror at Korea who was fooling about with a locked door.

"No!" he yelled, running towards Korea - the others following - so that when the floor beneath Korea dropped away like the hidden trapdoor that it was, all seven Nations hurtled screaming down into the darkness.

***

  
\- Akira is of course that landmark anime movie by Katsuhiro Otomo (writer and director) which paved the way for anime to hit on shores outside Japan. Kicking soundtrack too.

\- The Hidden Fortress inspired Star Wars; and the Seven Samurai inspired the western, the Magnificent Seven. Alfred's been an admirer of Kiku's media for longer than the anime craze.

\- Pointbreak is a surfing film, one that's rather a classic even if it is kind of cheesy.

Next part, Alfred's POV, I promise.


	14. in which America says something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America's POV on America's birthday!

America's head reeled like an Irish dancer, complete to the fast beat of drums within his temples. The deep, drugged sleep he'd fallen into, after Alaska, had been the last time he had gotten any (and that after days of scrambling around his own lands), and most of the good of that was lost, of course, by his epic but silent freak-out when he woke up and found himself in bed not only with one country, but three. He'd scrambled out of Canada so fast he barely remembered, now, how he had - he had vague memories of running, in the snow, and his head swimming and light, and his feet leaving bloody footprints in the white, white cold…

He'd stumbled into his border-guards, wracked with pain and cold, blood on his feet and face and hands - he didn't remember how - but he remembered their faces - the horror on their expressions. They'd bundled him into blankets and fed him the coffee from their pot, and someone had donated jeans and another person had donated a clean pair of boxers, and a third - a massive guy, bigger than America - gave a shirt that hung loose and large on him. Someone had knelt at his feet and he'd protested weakly - because he was America, dammit, and he didn't hold with kneeling, or bowing, or the kiss of the hand…

"Sometimes," someone said, a dark-haired man whose eyes worshiped when he looked at America, "Sometimes I wish you'd let us, like the Europeans and the Asians do. We love you but we don't know how to show it sometimes…"

America stared back and sputtered. The woman kneeling at his feet looked up. "At least let me bandage your feet," she said, voice professional.

America subsided.

He fled the border as soon as he could, heading deeper into the heart of himself. He wore his guards' clothes on his back and someone's running shoes on his feet, and he rode someone's well-loved motorcycle, with an awkward, reverent kiss on his brow from the woman who'd administered first-aid. He left behind his thanks, and a group of Americans filled with more protective anger than was usual for Americans - a group, he would later learn, who had later arranged for Apache attack copters to patrol the borders on both the North and South, and who'd sufficiently filled the pilots of said helicopters with their patriotic zeal that they`d almost fired on the Canadian Griffin that bore three Nations into America.

  
He`d ridden that motorcycle until it ran out of gas, and then he`d walked down the straight gray ribbon of highway until he found a small town. He still wasn`t thinking quite clearly - he stumbled into a bar, and drank something harsh and bitter to take the chill off his bones - a chill that seemed to have bitten into the core of him, that had seeped in from Canada`s northern wastes and kept him shivering since then.

Someone sat next to him and looked him in the eye - and gasped, knowing him for who he was.

Then the beer had flowed, and he`d slurred out a rough-cut story to attentive ears. America did not sleep with other Nations; all his love was for his States, he said (they cheered.) Just like Washington (they cheered again) and Jefferson (again, but less than for Washington) and Franklin (another round of applause) had advised him. And now _they_ wanted to make him break that promise. (They boo`d) A promise he`d scribed in his own blood, in the _Constitution_ (a loyal American cheer for the Constitution). And all they wanted from him was his ass. They chased him like he was fucking meat and they were starving wolves, no, hyenas, cos wolves were fucking cool, he decided aloud. (There were cheers and a few rather good wolf-howls.) No one chased after him for his company, well, not like this. But for the chance to make him their bitch? (Angry mutterings and a few "Fuck the French!" and "Stupid Limeys!" and "Let's blame Canada!" and so on).

He didn't really remember the rest, though he sort of vaguely recalled standing on a table and giving a speech while everyone in the bar went as mad as the Scots in that Mel Gibson flick, with the blue paint, and him swearing, just like good ol' Wallace, that they'd never take his freedom or virginity, and the crowd had roared their adulation.

And then at some point they'd begun singing his anthem, while he beamed at them with tears in his eyes, and then the Battle Hymn of the Republic, and when they'd started singing "This Land Is Our Land" he'd begun to outright bawl, and someone had hugged him, and another one had, and it all dissolved into a giant pile of hugs and people crying into his chest that they loved him, they loved him so so much.

The beer there must have been _really_ fucking good.

When he'd staggered out, someone had clapped a cowboy hat to his head, he'd traded his sneaks for a pair of beautifully hand-tooled boots, and a golden horse was waiting for him in the parking lot.

***  
  
America leaned against the horse, who snuffled at him amiably and blew horsey breath into his hair, ruffling it. America laughed quietly, still riding high off his citizens' love and adulation, and reached up to scratch behind the horse's ears.

The horse was shod and reined, but hadn't a saddle. America didn't mind; he hated tacking up, and had got around the necessity of it by riding bareback as much as possible back in the old days. (Old days - England and France would scoff at him for calling them that. Old days, they were barely a century gone.)

He didn't remember climbing up onto the stallion's back but he must have, because then the horse was cantering off in the direction of the just-rising sun, high-stepping and gay, his silver mane and tail bannering in the wind. America knew very well what a splendid picture they would have made - had he been able to ride properly. But instead he was draped over the horse's back, limp, clinging to the proud, arched neck, and he was falling asleep…

"Niyol," he whispered into the horse's ears, one cocked towards him in acknowledgment, before he slipped into an exhausted, thin sleep. "Niyol, for the wind."

***

When he woke up, Niyol was no longer moving forward - he shifted his weight, and snorted a bit, but stood as still and steady as a lamppost. America felt better for his nap, his head spun a little less, and - oh joyous - he didn`t feel so cold anymore. In fact, he felt warm, and he was leaning against a warm body, and there were warm arms wrapped around him…

Warm hands, warm like sunbaked sands, like the sands of his deserts, like the sands of the Australian outback. Hands slipping inside his oversized dark blue shirt, undoing his buttons, sliding over his chest and belly…

The effect was soothing more than anything else; he felt like a cat being petted. He yawned throatily, a purr building in his throat. The hands slipped upwards, pushed his shirt off, and a familiar voice crooned in his ear, "G'day, mate."

America snapped to full consciousness then and straightened, which only served to let Australia pull his shirt off more easily. He whipped his head around and stared.

Australia, his dark green eyes alight with mischief and - and - America refused to name it, even with a flush so red it could be seen on Australia's tanned skin high on his cheeks, grinned back at him and gave him a hug, nipping at America's ear.

"So, I heard you were a corkin' good rider, America. Want to see if we can do it on horseback?" he purred.

America kicked him off.

He then dug his heels into Niyol's sides, urging the stallion into a gallop. He heard a thunder of hoofbeats behind him - he spared a glance back, saw Australia on top of a tall chestnut horse, riding after him, his blue shirt still clenched in his hand.

And then at some point England had joined in, looking a bit ludicrous in his underwear, riding a white pony that looked almost too small to carry a man, and there were CARS, and a chase scene in the desert, and really America felt it was all a bit much.

He hurled himself into his hidden safehold, felt the steel door clang shut behind him, leaned against it, and breathed a sigh of relief.

And _then_ he remembered that Canada was with them, and scrambled into the control room to ready an escape.

***

Niyol: Native American name (Navajo), meaning 'Wind'.

"This Land Is Your Land" is one of the United States' most famous folk songs. Its lyrics were written by American folk singer Woody Guthrie in 1940, in critical response to Irving Berlin's "God Bless America." (I hadn't known it was actually semi-sarcastic)

Happy birthday, America!

 

A reply and note from the original fill: 

"I've always been struck by the way Americans are so patriotic, and since America (in Hetalia) is my favorite character on top of that...Heh.   
  
Now, what I want to emphasize here - maybe I should make it clearer in a later part - is that Alfred's not completely right - England and France do care about him beyond a piece of tail, and so do Korea and Japan and even inscrutable China, a bit... even Russia, in his own cracked way -- do value him. Canada realizes that when England and France came to the Yukon, which is why he's willing to go along. But in my headcanon, America's gotten so good at ignoring their insults and annoyance with him, he legitimately overlooks their real affection.   
  
So both sides are going to need to get some insight on what the other is thinking. "


	15. in which America has a beer

_Hey brother! Do you still believe_   
_in one another?_   
_Hey sister! Do you still believe in love?_   
_I wonder_   
_Oh, if the sky comes falling down,_   
_for you_   
_There's nothing in this world I wouldn't do_

* * *

 

Alfred's little hideaway in the desert - not his only hideaway, and not, for that matter, his only hideaway in Nevada - was designated on a secret NSA list as "Site Rattler (10819N)". It was used, mainly, as a place for Alfred to retreat to when he wanted to be alone. But it was designed, and could be used, as a staging ground for US troops in the event of an invasion on US soil.

Site Rattler was not _a_ cave, but an extensive and intricate network of caves, most underground. There was, as Matthew had mentioned, canned goods, but he'd neglected to mention the canned goods were to supply whole companies, and their dependents, and to last for a theoretical year of siege. There was an armory, filled with everything from anti-tank shoulder-mounted missiles to carbon-composite compound bows. There was a barracks section with five hundred cots and room for more. There was a spring-fed water reservoir, and provisions for a hydroponics facility. And there were…other things.

America sat at the control center, sipping a room-temperature beer (Arthur would approve, the freak). He had found a clean white GI shirt in the supply closet, and an old Army uniform jacket patterned in green camo, and even new socks. And he was laughing, snorting his beer up his nose, as he watched Niyol nearly brain England with a hoof. Oh, that beautiful, wonderful stallion.

He was less amused when England`s little white pony chased Niyol away, and even less amused when the others showed up.

Canada was there.

Canada _knew_.

Site Rattler, designed as a nerve-center from which US troops, in a worst case scenario, could launch lightning-fast raids on occupied US territory, was equipped with multiple exit points. He decided to use the one that ended up near the interstate. He began to fill his jacket`s cargo pockets with necessities - a gun, a bowie knife, canned beers, an emergency stash of cash, a compass - and glanced up just in time to observe, on the monitors linked to the observation cameras outside the cave`s main entrance, Canada drawling the ultimate override code into the hidden console.

`That traitorous son of a bitch!` America hissed to himself. He couldn't block that unlocking code, it was the one code that couldn't be - keyed to him and Canada, keyed deliberately, damn him! He'd thought it was hilarious, and awesome, ~~and a little…it made him feel a little less lonely~~ that Canada could find him no matter where, that America could do the same with the hidden sites in Canada.

He should have remembered 1812.

He should have remembered that he had only allies, common interests, not friends - wasn't it one of Francis's who had said so? He should have listened.

(But he'd hoped - oh, he'd _hoped_ …)

He didn't have much time. He stood to leave, but took the time to key the anti-intruder automatic security system on.

He hoped the seven Nations had as much fun at Rattler as he had being hunted all over his own fucking lands.

***

Original 2009 ANs (chapter was posted July 1, 2009):

Happy Canada Day y'all! I feel like I should write a Canada ficlet to make up for this. Aww, Canada.

The quote in question seems to be most commonly attributed to Charles de Gaulle - France's old boss, and the one Canada still has nightmares about because he nearly caused Quebec to secede! - but the sentiment is an old one.   
  
And poor Matt. Part of the trouble is Alfred so easily and automatically assumes Matthew will back him up 100% that he can really anger Matt - and Al is always so surprised when he does. The reactions of Americanons to tales of Canadian antipathy still makes me LOL and go AWW. Alfred's lonely, and what makes it worse is that he's lonely in a crowd, if that makes sense. It's a vicious cycle - he's lonely because of his own actions, which makes other countries get irritated at him (for legitimate reasons) which makes him filter them out as a coping mechanism, which leads him to irritate them more...etc etc.

 


	16. in which there is a loop-de-loop

 

The freefall lasted only a moment; within a few seconds of stomach-churning fear, they landed - in various degrees of pain - on a long, smooth slide, whizzing after one another like oversized children in a water amusement park. Korea and Australia even began to whoop whenever a particularly sharp turn was plotted.

Canada was silent.

"What's wrong?" England, just in front of him, yelled.

"There's two places we could end up," Canada yelled back.

England was about to ask what these places were, but Australia screeched with glee as the slide actually took them through a loop-de-loop, and China was shrieking and holding onto Japan, and somehow his words got lost.

France landed first, then Japan and China, then Korea - all of whom rolled away, but Australia didn't, just sat there and laughed, with the result that England plowed straight into his wild young ex-Colony, and they were so tangled up that they couldn't move away before Canada landed on top of them.

"Ow, _ow_ ," England hissed as he got up, rubbing at his side - he'd bruise there for sure - and resisted the urge to kick the still-grinning Australia in the side.

Canada was looking around, eyes wide. The undercave was shadowy, no artificial lights here to cast clean, clear illumination, but it wasn't totally dark either; there was some light coming from somewhere South.

Korea was already running towards it.

" _Tabernak_!" growled Canada, and took after him, catching up as Korea paused by a cave entrance; the others right behind.

The cave opened into a protected bowl, a desert ecosystem as isolated and defended as a biosphere. Sheer walls of rock encased it in a natural enclosure; there were two ways in or out: the sky and the cave. The sandy bowl was dotted with rocks and cacti and a watering hole; one that was obviously fed by a nearby water-tower.

"Where are…"

Canada cut off England's question with another groan. "Oh no. We didn't hit the labyrinth. Now we're at America's little preserve…"

"Oh no?" China echoed. "Why oh…?"

He was interrupted and answered by a sudden dry, raspy sound; the sound, Canada knew glumly, a rattlesnake made before it strikes…

The Nations stared, suddenly realizing the bowl was alive with rattlesnakes - not just one or two, but the whole range of rattlers that called Nevada home, Mohave Greens and Speckled and Sidewinders and large Western Diamondbacks - all of their dark, ancient eyes fixed on the mammalian intruders, these Nations who were not _their_ Nation, did not smell like one with the land the way _He_ did…

France tried to sputter a question as the Nations fled back into the cool darkness of the cave. "What - why…"

"It's why this is called Site Rattler," Canada said flatly. "Alfred uses it as a wildlife preserve for those snakes. Didn't you notice the big Gadsen flag in the lobby? And not only snakes - Gila monsters too…"

There was silence as they retreated back, broken suddenly by Australia, his voice hoarse with emotion and longing.

"I _must_ have him!"

***

Somewhere to the east of them, America was staggering through the Rockies, clutching his camo-pattern jacket closer to him at the coolness of the high altitude.

He heard a noise behind him, spun, mouth dropping open when he saw what Nation stood nearby.

***

AN:

All those rattlesnakes are indigenous to Nevada.

The Gila monster and the closely related Mexican beaded lizard are the world’s only known venomous lizards. They are also the largest lizards in North America.

\- source: www.ndow.org, Official Nevada Dep't of Wildlife webpage.

Quebec French profanities, known as _sacres_ (singular: sacre; French: sacrer, "to consecrate"), are words and expressions related to Catholicism and its liturgy that are used as strong profanities in Quebec French. _Tabernak_ (which means 'tabernacle') is their equivalent of "fuck!" 

 


End file.
